


The King's Friend

by Blackbird Song (Blackbird_Song)



Category: King's Speech (2010)
Genre: Gen, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackbird_Song/pseuds/Blackbird%20Song
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the height of the bombing, Bertie and Lionel discover that they have a personal concern in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vocative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vocative/gifts).



> This fictional story is based on another somewhat fictionalized story about real people who are no longer alive. I doubt that this particular interaction ever happened between them, and no insult is intended or implied, nor should it be inferred.
> 
> Vocative, I hope that I have in some way fulfilled your brief. Thank you so much for the prompt and your very generous leeway!
> 
> Many thanks to my husband for the beta.

It's raining. I hate rain, though I can't say so. It wouldn't be 'patriotic'. Last night's bombing weighs on my mind as the car navigates the clearest way to Logue's. London is so dreary, these days. It's been sooty all my life, but I can't remember the last time the sun shone. Maybe it has, and I just haven't seen it through the haze of smoke and fog.

As I walk towards Logue's flat, I find myself anticipating his less than proper greeting, his smiling face that doesn't dip in deference to the King.

The door opens before I knock, and there it is. "Hello, Bertie," he says. His smile is larger than usual, as though absence had made the heart grow fonder, though we'd only seen each other yesterday. He stands aside, welcoming me without touching me. It's all very proper, at least for Logue, but I find it irksome.

He shuts the door and turns toward me. "Let me take your coat." Before I can say anything, he is peeling it off me.

Before I can object, I see the coat and understand his forwardness. "I hadn't realised how drenched I was!"

"I'll go hang this some place warm. Back in a tick." He disappears down the dingy corridor. "And for heaven's sake, Bertie, go get warm," he shouts. "You're shivering!"

It strikes me then that he's the only person left in the world, other than Elizabeth, who can give me orders and get away with it. I find that I can't resent it as much as I used to. In fact, it warms me enough to recognise that I'm shivering, just as Logue observed. He's rarely wrong about that sort of thing. In fact, he's never wrong about it.

I sit in the upholstered chair by the fire. The furniture here is worn and poor, but not broken and bleak, as in the Harley Street office. I wouldn't want to live here, but I can see that it's habitable. Barely.

"Would you like tea, or something stronger?"

"Tea for now. Stronger later." I manage it all without a stammer, but only just.

Logue nods and sits, pouring the tea. "You're tense, Bertie." He hands me the cup and pours some for himself. "Must have been quite frightening, last night."

"The bombing, you mean?" The 'b' gives me away. "Yes, it was, a bit. We w-were most worried about the girls." 'W's, 'b's and 'g's, now. Trouble with the 'm', too. Better than square one, but irritating. "The – Churchill wants us to send them a-away. Elizabeth says no." The 'n' hangs a bit.

"How do you feel about it?"

"I'd – I'd s—" It's so clogged up that I feel as though I could choke on it. It makes me furious. "I'd send them to fucking Pluto, if I could! But I can't leave London, Elizabeth won't leave me, and she won't send them anywhere without g-going with them!"

"You're worried about them."

"Of course, I'm fucking worried! "

"And yet you're afraid they'll leave."

I'm shaking my head, trying to say 'no' for all I'm worth, but it won't come out. And it's not just my head that's shaking.

"Breathe, Bertie."

There is something so soothing about Logue's voice that I cannot help but obey. "I wish I sounded more like you, Lionel."

"That is why you come to me, is it not?" he asks, after a pause.

I look up at the smile in his voice. It is easier, now, despite the war and the horrors of being bombed. "I wish I were strong enough to send them away."

"I know. I wish I could send Myrtle and the boys away, too."

"W-Why don't you? I could help arrange something for them in the country."

"You have enough to think about, Your Majesty."

"Don't – fucking condescend to me!" I am surprised by how much my title can hurt.

Logue is silent, the smile gone from his face. I don't know that I can bear the pain that has replaced it.

"I – shouldn't have said that." It's the closest thing to an apology that I can make to anyone. Kings aren't allowed.

"And I should have been more honest with you." Logue lets out a soft, controlled sigh. "Myrtle decided that if the Queen Consort and the Princesses can stay with you, she and the boys can stay with me."

"Did she really say that?"

"I expurgated a 'bloody well' and a few other choice words, but yes."

I can't help but smile at the thought of the very proper Mrs Logue swearing. I look up to find a similar expression on Logue's face, and then we're laughing. I go to pick up my glass, but remember that I asked for tea. "Er-perhaps we could try that 'something stronger' now."

Logue rises, a lightness in his movement that I hadn't noticed I'd been missing, and fetches the whisky, pouring it into two glasses. When he hands me mine, I let my hand brush his.

He gives me a startled, affectionate look.

"I'm trying to get over my fear of touching people. Elizabeth says I should."

Logue smiles at me. "A toast," he offers.

I stand.

"To stubborn wives."

I refuse to be offended by the liberty. It takes all that I have, but I know that Lionel is right. When I realise that I just thought of him by first name, another barrier between us drops. "Hear, hear!" I touch my glass to his, and we drink.

We sit again. I swirl my drink as much as the little glass will allow.

When I glance up at him, Lionel is doing the same. He seems lost in thought.

I look at his familiar, craggy face, thinking about the unimagined forces of history and nature that made this quiet moment possible between two men so many worlds apart. We were never supposed to be friends, according to all of our training. He is my speech therapist, my subject. I am his King, his Emperor.

Yet here, in this place – his house, his rules – we are as close to equal as I will ever be with anyone outside of my family. I look back on how hard I fought this over the years. Another impediment dissolves as I realise how essential Lionel Logue is to my being.

He looks up at me.

"To friendship," I offer.

"To friendship." He touches his glass to mine.


End file.
